I pity those who use profanity it is very UNGODLY . I Pity those who have no use for church ——- I may be thinking of a different word than the one shown so help me —-my opinion is we will never use these words we r studying anyways am I right yes I’m right
“I have pity for her.” Amelia said. “Her mom hits her all the time, for no good reason.” I know!” Cari exclaimed. “But what can we do to make her mom stop?”
He spent almost an hour telling his story. Ohara listened patiently, nodding and taking notes. When he finished, Ohara leaned forward, and spoke.
“Well, it certainly is a sad …”
“I don’t want pity,” the man interrupted testily; “I want you to find my children!”
“… state of affairs,” Ohara continued, not showing any emotion; “but we have had success in this type of situation before.”
‘I think that’s the worst part, though,’ she said finally, when the hiccups had subsided. ‘The fact that they all pity me, you know?’
Damien and I exchanged looks. We DIDN’T know; that was the problem. And she’d never tell us anyway. She loved mysteries too much to reveal herself that easily.
I pity them because they slather their faces with something fake purely because they’ve been raised to believe that that is how you make yourself pretty.
I pity them because they think that’s the most important thing: to make themselves look desirable.
I pity them because they think it will make them feel good- make people want them.
“It’s a pity,” I said. I had hoped that would be enough, but it had not been, and I could not stand the way she was looking at me right now. I didn’t know what else to do, though. I was expected to grieve, but I was not bothered, and when I tried to cry, the sobs stuck in my throat.
I wished people would stop making such a big production over her death.
Nevertheless, she thought that it deserved a shot and so she began to follow him, unknowingly of the destination that this choice was going to take her. It was such a pity that she was so impulsive, for she would never be the same once the adventure ended. And that she was not ready to abide.
no time for it.. yet we look for it and we heap it on others. What is a shame? What is a pity? Wasting ones potential? Is it a negative thing to have for oneself yet a positive thing to bestow on others? Is it a side manifestation of compassion?
boggle. I cheated and I premeditated a word while the page loaded. Boggled like a pair of googly eye goggles. wait, that doesn’t sound right. Rapper voice initiate.
Uh, cuz you gotta say uh before you fling a pattern big like the rings of saturn break on open a greek lamp and reach to the bottom and pick up an answer from Artemis helping hard on this stringing words to create thoughts and realize maybe i’m not an artist.
Why and
When did I decide to revolve my life around
Times that have occured
I refer to past events until the past events I’ve reviewed for weeks become faded
Until the new events that are then the old cover the old old ones
Living in the past is nerve-wracking because what if you don’t remember?
I feel nauseous all of time
Constantly
Worried
What
Will
Happen
Things
I
Can’t
Control
he looked down at her like a dog, swiveling his head side-to-side like a hen. clucking with false tenderness, he patted her head gently and mocked her by dangling his golden clock in front of her. she swept her hands underneath him so quickly he would have never even known she had a knife. in seconds, she was running down the alley at a breakneck pace, a whimsical little chain dangling from her fingers.
The look in her eyes, condescending. Scorn.
Pity.
I don’t know what to say;
“Get out of my face?”
“Mind your own f****** business?”
Take the easy way,
Say nothing.
Instead I turn around
And go home.
‘Tis a pity, really, to bury the king. A king that was burly and bearded and strong. A king that could part the oceans with his naval fleets. A king who used his scepter to break open skulls. The skulls of his enemies. The skulls of his friends. The jawbones of women and children. Come to think of it, this king sounds like a right bastard. You know what…f*** him. Bury him. Bury him and make sure no one can dig him up in case he’s possibly still alive.
They all stare at me in pity-an orphan dressed, in rags, no coat, not even blanket. They all just look in pity, but no one ever helps. They just look in pity-probably thinking “I hope someone will help that poor sickly child,” but no one ever does. They only look in pity-only just pity without ever helping.
“I never wanted it to turn out like this,”
“Save your pity, Arya; I have neither want nor need of it,”
“It isn’t pity,” she protested, “It’s regret. I should’ve been there; I should’ve SEEN. I should’ve…”
For the first time, she looked up at her, “Should have WHAT?”
“Protected you!” she said, the words bursting out of her without her consent, “I should have PROTECTED you, little sister,”
I pitied the poor man as he went on and on about what a disdain the damn liberals were with their bane against voter ID laws. “Fuckin crazy” he uttered, turning back to the TV. He can’t see. He raises a fist against military sequesters and shakes his head when marriage is defined by love, not gender. I pity the view of the world he is cursed with.
“Like I give a fuck.”
“June, you already broke a hand. Do you really think that its such a good idea to go around, running like an idiot just because you think your parents will pay attention?”
June looked away from him and sighed, pushing herself upwards and grabbed his collar, pulling him down for a kiss.
“I swear to god, they think I need some sort of pity party or some shit.”
He smiled quietly a bit at his lover and turned from June, turning to leave.
June followed.
He said he never really pitied me, but I knew better. His kisses and hugs and even the compassionate words were all laced with it. It was probably because he enjoyed my pain so he could heal it. I didn’t mind at first, but as soon as my depression had finally left me, so did he. I knew in the back of my mind that it would be like this, but two years later, I am so much happier without him and I won’t ever look back.
Isn’t it a pity, isn’t it a shame. Isn’t that the refrain as it’s called out under duress, the burden from the strain. It’s hoarse in the throat from all the regret that things stayed the same. That minds refused to change and that this ache must remain a pain.
She’s never been a cruel person. In fact, the only cruel thing she ever did was accidental, and most people would have dismissed it as a small part of a larger kindness. Jessica was seventeen years old when her aunt took her in, and she’d have been eternally grateful for the warmth of her home and her compassion if not for the pity that swam in her eyes as she offered.
Perhaps it’s unfair, but Jessica has resented her for that pity for the rest of her life.
I pitied him in that moment. Broken and sobbing on the floor – he looked like he had shattered into a million pieces and would never be whole again. I didn’t even think he was crying tears…he was crying his lifeblood out…red rivers down his face…it was something I had never known. Something I hoped I would never know.
I lost track of how many beers I’ve had. I lift the bottle to my mouth with such speed that I almost knock my teeth out. And in the background I hear George Harrison singing on the fuzzed out radio, and I can’t help but weep. It really is a pity.
he pity himself. He thinks he has no use in human nature. They all pity the poor boy from that little town. He wants to die. And he will. Soon enough. He will suicide.
The view from here used to be so magnificent. I remember the trees, the flowers, the sunlight cascading over the top of the pond in simple majesty. Now there’s a Wal-Mart. What a pity.
the deepness of their eyes
was something to fear drowning in.
i think the color of pity
is something dark and viscous.
there are pictures of those oily ducks on Dawn bottles
and i pray for my own soap bubble.
Mr. T looked out over the sprawling cedars on his front lawn in that little suburb outside Chicago and hated the monotony that his existence was slowly, slowly, slowly degrading into. He picked up the chainsaw, and pitied the yews.
I pity the man sitting next to me, alone, at the local Olive Garden. I patiently wait for my take out order to be completed and watch him. Bowl after bowl, beer after beer. Looking completely unhappy with all aspects of his life. Except that alfredo in front of him.
Do not pity me for I am much stronger than you think. I have lived through many trials, and will live through many more Lord willing.
:)
I pity those who use profanity it is very UNGODLY . I Pity those who have no use for church ——- I may be thinking of a different word than the one shown so help me —-my opinion is we will never use these words we r studying anyways am I right yes I’m right
“I have pity for her.” Amelia said. “Her mom hits her all the time, for no good reason.” I know!” Cari exclaimed. “But what can we do to make her mom stop?”
i pity the fools
who dont take care when it comes
to themselves
He spent almost an hour telling his story. Ohara listened patiently, nodding and taking notes. When he finished, Ohara leaned forward, and spoke.
“Well, it certainly is a sad …”
“I don’t want pity,” the man interrupted testily; “I want you to find my children!”
“… state of affairs,” Ohara continued, not showing any emotion; “but we have had success in this type of situation before.”
It was another morning in Herman House and Marie opened the twelve window today. A refreshing breeze rushes in and blesses her with its chill.
The old man looked at him with pity. Alan felt fury bubbling. He could deal with anger, with revulsion but not pity.
‘I think that’s the worst part, though,’ she said finally, when the hiccups had subsided. ‘The fact that they all pity me, you know?’
Damien and I exchanged looks. We DIDN’T know; that was the problem. And she’d never tell us anyway. She loved mysteries too much to reveal herself that easily.
I pity the girls who think that’s beautiful.
I pity them.
I pity them because they slather their faces with something fake purely because they’ve been raised to believe that that is how you make yourself pretty.
I pity them because they think that’s the most important thing: to make themselves look desirable.
I pity them because they think it will make them feel good- make people want them.
I PITY THEM.
“It’s a pity,” I said. I had hoped that would be enough, but it had not been, and I could not stand the way she was looking at me right now. I didn’t know what else to do, though. I was expected to grieve, but I was not bothered, and when I tried to cry, the sobs stuck in my throat.
I wished people would stop making such a big production over her death.
Nevertheless, she thought that it deserved a shot and so she began to follow him, unknowingly of the destination that this choice was going to take her. It was such a pity that she was so impulsive, for she would never be the same once the adventure ended. And that she was not ready to abide.
I don’t know who to pity more.
Me? With all my lack of confidence?
Or them? Who miss out on what I have to offer?
I wish I could pity them more.
no time for it.. yet we look for it and we heap it on others. What is a shame? What is a pity? Wasting ones potential? Is it a negative thing to have for oneself yet a positive thing to bestow on others? Is it a side manifestation of compassion?
boggle. I cheated and I premeditated a word while the page loaded. Boggled like a pair of googly eye goggles. wait, that doesn’t sound right. Rapper voice initiate.
Uh, cuz you gotta say uh before you fling a pattern big like the rings of saturn break on open a greek lamp and reach to the bottom and pick up an answer from Artemis helping hard on this stringing words to create thoughts and realize maybe i’m not an artist.
But I’m not. Pity.
Why and
When did I decide to revolve my life around
Times that have occured
I refer to past events until the past events I’ve reviewed for weeks become faded
Until the new events that are then the old cover the old old ones
Living in the past is nerve-wracking because what if you don’t remember?
I feel nauseous all of time
Constantly
Worried
What
Will
Happen
Things
I
Can’t
Control
he looked down at her like a dog, swiveling his head side-to-side like a hen. clucking with false tenderness, he patted her head gently and mocked her by dangling his golden clock in front of her. she swept her hands underneath him so quickly he would have never even known she had a knife. in seconds, she was running down the alley at a breakneck pace, a whimsical little chain dangling from her fingers.
The look in her eyes, condescending. Scorn.
Pity.
I don’t know what to say;
“Get out of my face?”
“Mind your own f****** business?”
Take the easy way,
Say nothing.
Instead I turn around
And go home.
‘Tis a pity, really, to bury the king. A king that was burly and bearded and strong. A king that could part the oceans with his naval fleets. A king who used his scepter to break open skulls. The skulls of his enemies. The skulls of his friends. The jawbones of women and children. Come to think of it, this king sounds like a right bastard. You know what…f*** him. Bury him. Bury him and make sure no one can dig him up in case he’s possibly still alive.
They all stare at me in pity-an orphan dressed, in rags, no coat, not even blanket. They all just look in pity, but no one ever helps. They just look in pity-probably thinking “I hope someone will help that poor sickly child,” but no one ever does. They only look in pity-only just pity without ever helping.
“I never wanted it to turn out like this,”
“Save your pity, Arya; I have neither want nor need of it,”
“It isn’t pity,” she protested, “It’s regret. I should’ve been there; I should’ve SEEN. I should’ve…”
For the first time, she looked up at her, “Should have WHAT?”
“Protected you!” she said, the words bursting out of her without her consent, “I should have PROTECTED you, little sister,”
I pitied the poor man as he went on and on about what a disdain the damn liberals were with their bane against voter ID laws. “Fuckin crazy” he uttered, turning back to the TV. He can’t see. He raises a fist against military sequesters and shakes his head when marriage is defined by love, not gender. I pity the view of the world he is cursed with.
“Like I give a fuck.”
“June, you already broke a hand. Do you really think that its such a good idea to go around, running like an idiot just because you think your parents will pay attention?”
June looked away from him and sighed, pushing herself upwards and grabbed his collar, pulling him down for a kiss.
“I swear to god, they think I need some sort of pity party or some shit.”
He smiled quietly a bit at his lover and turned from June, turning to leave.
June followed.
Pity.
It swallows you whole.
The earth falls down around you.
You watch.
Doing nothing.
Time’s up.
He said he never really pitied me, but I knew better. His kisses and hugs and even the compassionate words were all laced with it. It was probably because he enjoyed my pain so he could heal it. I didn’t mind at first, but as soon as my depression had finally left me, so did he. I knew in the back of my mind that it would be like this, but two years later, I am so much happier without him and I won’t ever look back.
When my sandwich dropped to the ground, I thought to myself: what a pity! I don’t think I want to live anymore.
I pity the human herz
Glad mine is one made of stahl
Potential for so much hurt
I’ll ever know none at all
I PITY the fool
That wastes time pitying fools
Don’t be so foolish
On the other hand,
No, pity the pitier…
That’d make me a fool.
Isn’t it a pity, isn’t it a shame. Isn’t that the refrain as it’s called out under duress, the burden from the strain. It’s hoarse in the throat from all the regret that things stayed the same. That minds refused to change and that this ache must remain a pain.
Pity is when you have nothig to do but see it, feel it inside of you, reach your hand out for them, but don’t pull them from teh pit. You just stare.
She’s never been a cruel person. In fact, the only cruel thing she ever did was accidental, and most people would have dismissed it as a small part of a larger kindness. Jessica was seventeen years old when her aunt took her in, and she’d have been eternally grateful for the warmth of her home and her compassion if not for the pity that swam in her eyes as she offered.
Perhaps it’s unfair, but Jessica has resented her for that pity for the rest of her life.
I pitied him in that moment. Broken and sobbing on the floor – he looked like he had shattered into a million pieces and would never be whole again. I didn’t even think he was crying tears…he was crying his lifeblood out…red rivers down his face…it was something I had never known. Something I hoped I would never know.
I lost track of how many beers I’ve had. I lift the bottle to my mouth with such speed that I almost knock my teeth out. And in the background I hear George Harrison singing on the fuzzed out radio, and I can’t help but weep. It really is a pity.
he pity himself. He thinks he has no use in human nature. They all pity the poor boy from that little town. He wants to die. And he will. Soon enough. He will suicide.
I pity you. When you fell. Pity
I pity you. When you fell.
The view from here used to be so magnificent. I remember the trees, the flowers, the sunlight cascading over the top of the pond in simple majesty. Now there’s a Wal-Mart. What a pity.
the deepness of their eyes
was something to fear drowning in.
i think the color of pity
is something dark and viscous.
there are pictures of those oily ducks on Dawn bottles
and i pray for my own soap bubble.
Mr. T looked out over the sprawling cedars on his front lawn in that little suburb outside Chicago and hated the monotony that his existence was slowly, slowly, slowly degrading into. He picked up the chainsaw, and pitied the yews.
I pity the man sitting next to me, alone, at the local Olive Garden. I patiently wait for my take out order to be completed and watch him. Bowl after bowl, beer after beer. Looking completely unhappy with all aspects of his life. Except that alfredo in front of him.